


4 Things Sebastian Gave For Christmas, and 1 Thing He Didn't Get To

by SpeculativeCorvid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty Fluff, Winterlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21715957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeculativeCorvid/pseuds/SpeculativeCorvid
Summary: A short winterlock piece for the holidays while I take a break from my main piece.----Moriarty is known for being the best gift-giver to get during the annual 'St. Nick Swap' event at his Empire, but what happens when Sebastian Moran gets his name drawn four years in a row? And what does he get Moriarty for Christmas?
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Kudos: 31





	4 Things Sebastian Gave For Christmas, and 1 Thing He Didn't Get To

If you had asked Sebastian Moran during his first year of working at one of Moriarty's companies who he thought would be the best gift giver in the company was, he would have probably pointed towards Trisha Collins, low level HR rep who had everyone's paper files, or Thomas Danially, the third year paralegal who worked on the fifth floor and had hyperthymesia. Not once would it have crossed his mind that the creepy, dark-eyed Irish prick himself would be who everyone wanted to have as their St. Nick Swap for the company-wide gift-giving drawing. And so when Moran returned to the office one day after a job and found everyone clutching elaborate red and white velvet envelopes with their names painted on them in gold and opened his own too-fancy envelope (really, a sticky note out of a hat would have been perfectly fine) to see the elegant hand-calligraphed rules and the golden swirling name of _J. Moriarty_ , he wanted to quit and leave the country. Because honestly, what the _hell_ did you get an insane, power-hungry, owns-everything-he-could-desire kind of guy? And what would Moriarty get _him_?

* * *

[Year One]

* * *

A mug. You get the insane, power-hungry, owns-everything-he-could-desire kind of guy a white mug that says "World's Okayest Boss". And then you update your will because you're not sure if you've made a really funny joke, or if said boss is going to ask you to join him in his office and then stab you. Repeatedly. When it came time for gifts to be exchanged, Sebastian handed over the present (he had paid Trisha to wrap it because he didn't think the devil himself would like a box wrapped in newspaper and taped shut) and it was added to the pile set to be distributed (after everything was cleared by a security team). Everyone's gifts were passed out a week later and there was a small informal gathering later in one of the larger conference rooms, people brought in food and drinks. Moran hadn't _really_ wanted to go because he had only been there for a few months at that point, but Morgan Jones from one of the accounting floors had insisted he come, tugging on his arm and blathering on and on about how fun the event was last year and how he'd love it.

It hadn't been an awful event, but it certainly hadn't been the rip-roaring party he had been promised. Moran hadn't worked an office job a day in his life, but it looked like every office holiday party he had seen on the telly. People getting way too drunk way too quickly, couples sneaking in and out of the room thinking no one saw them coming or going. Circles of gossipers lingering around corners, spreading rumors. Sebastian hadn't opened his gift, the box that had been passed out to him was relatively small, about a foot long and only four inches wide. It was wrapped in black wrapping paper and tied with a simple white bow and when he turned the box around in his hand he could faintly see the outline of... Jesus, did Moriarty get custom wrapping paper with a matte black silhouette pattern of the L115A3 printed on it? Or did he often give gifts wrapped with just happened to be the same gun Moran preferred? 

"Oh, you're got to open it here, Seb!” Trisha was grinning widely, a drink clutched in one manicured hand, the other tapping the wrapped box. ”The Boss gives the best gifts, last year Sharlene got a diamond necklace and the year before that Brian, you know from receiving? He got a trip to some fancy winery he had been blabbing about for months.” He turned the box over, peeling the ribbon away and letting it pool to the floor. The paper was next, he ripped it carelessly and let it fall where it pleased. ”Oh. That's... Odd.” He turned the unwrapped box over, his momentary silence taken as disappointment. “Well, you are new and it’s possible he didn’t know what to get you, and _everyone_ knows you smoke too much.” Trisha was blathering on with excuses, his silence making the moment a bit too awkward for her to handle. “Better luck with who you get next year, maybe?” She scurried away quickly, drink clutched in one hand, fresh gossip on the tip of her tongue. 

Moran turned the thin cardboard box over again, a flash of confusion on his face. This was... a carton of cigarettes. But... The writing, the labeling on the front and even the faint smell that came off the box. This was a carton of cigarettes from Dahan-e Dival, the shitstain little town he had been parked next to for two years in the army when he was in Afghanistan. He has hated the cheap hand-rolled cigarettes at first, but within a month he had grown to love them and had actually missed the taste after coming back to England. He hadn't told anyone that, hadn't even smoked one in over three years, so how the hell did Moriarty know? Suddenly his mug felt a lot less funny than he thought it had been. 

* * *

[Year Two]

* * *

He didn't expect to be part of the empire-wide exchange this year. He had been sent on a job to Oaxaca, Mexico, to deal with a particularly stubborn drug lord and was still there when the exchange was set to happen. But when he crawled back to the room he was staying in after dealing with said drug lord's many minions, there was a sharply dressed man waiting by his bed with a familiar red velvet envelope. When Moran opened it he read the familiar rules (a new one added about not trying to poison employees during the holidays) and saw the name of the person he was supposed to get a gift for. One J.Moriarty. _Again._

Okay, well, year two was going to be better. He had a whole week to plan, and there wasn't going to be any trouble with the drug lord for a few days. Seb hit the town the next day, spending hour after hour looking into shop windows and at street vendors. It was near evening when he stumbled across the festival taking place in the lower city, singing and dancing in the streets, the whole square lit up with glowing lights and candles, drinking and dancing and feasting spread through the center. 'Festival de Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte', a man explained when Sebastian pulled him aside. The festival of Our Lady of the Holy Death, the female saint of protection against violence, protection against violent deaths, criminals and outcasts. Certainly a lady after his own heart, if there ever was one. The shrine at the center of the square held a large statue of a skeletal woman in painted robes, clutching an hourglass in one hand and a scythe in the other. He spent the evening enjoying the festivities and left after explaining his gift-finding issue to an elderly woman minding the shrine. She had laughed at his predicament and then delighted in selling him an over-priced wooden carving of Santa Muerte, promising that she would look over his 'rogue' boss, protect him from harm. Sebastian laughed at that, if anyone needed protection it was him, and he needed _against_ the man he was getting the gift for. 

But he thought Moriarty would find the piece interesting, if there ever was a patron saint that would watch over the man it would have to be the one of outcasts and criminals. His own gift arrived days after sending his back with the unnamed man who delivered the first envelope. This time it was a larger box wrapped with black paper and a bright orange ribbon, the box long and thin, and when he opened it there was a ridiculously beautiful rifle, a McMillian Tac-50. The sniper rifle was polished and painted a neat black matte, and when he looked at the butt he could see a faint engraving of pouncing tiger. The cigarettes had been a blast from the past, but this... this was absolutely wonderful. His wooden religious icon very obviously paled in comparison. 

* * *

[Year Three]

* * *

Sebastian had moved up in the criminal world. Gotten a few promotions, if you considered a sudden increase in his chances to get injured a promotion (which he did). He was working directly under Jim now, close enough that he even dared call him Jim to his face, as a bodyguard and personal 'gets shit done' guy. They had even grown to have a sort of banter between them, though most of their joking ended with Jim giving him a sharp look, or telling him to 'shut up, _Moran_ '. He saw the man that cast fear into the hearts of government leaders, politicians, hardened criminals, and then he had the opportunity to see that terrifying creature dressed in the same clothes for four days while he worked in a darkened room without eating or sleeping. Gave him bit of whiplash at times, the abrupt mood swings and odd mannerisms, but the work was amazing and honestly... who would give up doing what they loved just because their boss was a bit of a weirdo?

And then... there was also the flirting, which was nice and strange at time. Saucy winks in Moran's direction when Jim knew he was watching him through the scope, the fact that the man somehow made almost every other line out of his mouth into an innuendo. The jokes about his 'growls' and 'claws', his new nickname that made a few of the other men he worked with chuckle, the light touches and occasional late night texts. It was a veritable minefield to navigate, there were moments when he honest-to-god thought that he was into Seb, and then just as quickly he'd disappear for a few days and come back cold and harsh. He'd demand that Seb play roles for jobs, the dumb secretory, the gay lover, Los Vegas newlyweds, the honeypot, roles that demanded that they stay in close quarters for expended periods of time and flirt and talk and look sickeningly in love. It was enough to make Seb's head spin and he wasn't entirely sure whether or not any of the flirting and come-ons were real, or if it was an amusing game to his Boss. 

His chance to figure that out came in December, when the St. Nick Swap came around again and after spending so much time with the man, he knew that it was no random chance when he got the letter with J. Moriarty on it for the third year in a row. True to his nature, Sebastian decided to jump into the danger feet first. Odds were he'd die on the job, so if he made a bad decision and died a bit earlier? No big difference in the long run. So instead of spending the longest time trying to think of something decent to get a crazy man, he instead gave the man who came to pick up his gift a letter, and prepared to wait. 

"I'd say that you're shoddy at gift giving considering you gave me a slip of paper with an address and time," The familiar Irish drawl sounded from the doorway of Moran's flat, the man it belonged to leaning against the door frame in a casual, confident pose, opened letter between two fingers. "But I'd rather hope that you just had something so spectacular that it had to given in person." 

"Shoddy gift giver? You didn't even bring anything." He smiled a grin with far too many teeth, inwardly pleased with the way it was reflected back at him.

"Oh Tiger, I like to think we just got each other the same thing." James stepped forward out of the doorway, and if Moran had to choose a favorite Christmas, he'd always choose that one.

* * *

[Year Four]

* * *

When there is a solid chance that you're going to achieve at least two of the three things from the quote 'live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse', you tend to ignore social normalities and jump headlong into anything you get into. That's how it only took a week for Moran to come back to his flat after a job and find out that he had apparently moved out. His new living quarters? Why, a second bedroom at the many rotating flats of one James Moriarty, quickly to be changed to master bedroom. It was no surprise that Jim maintained his relationship like he did his business; cruel, cold, surprisingly passionate about the oddest things, insistent on showing no weakness, and completely obsessive over maintaining control. The rules were laid out very quickly and enforced even quicker when Moran crossed them. Not that he minded of course, feelings had never been his strongest point and being in a partnership where he didn't have to deal with any of the emotional aspects made dealing with the crazy a lot easier.

It'd be his first Christmas as professional 'live-in' bodyguard, maid, cook, and whipping boy but this year he was certain he had a good gift. Of course, his cocky attitude would always mean that he personally thought the best gift was easily himself, no topping last years gift. But he'd always strive to be better, at least to keep Jim's interest. He wasn't given a letter with a name this time, a jealous streak from Jim refusing to share? Or perhaps confidence in the fact that Moran would get the message? Either way, he knew who'd his St. Nick Swap partner would have been. J. Moriarty, of course. His gift this year had been planned out several months in advance, having secretly plotted and worked towards it whenever he found he could steal an hour or two of time away after a job finished early. 

His grand gift this year, he decided, appeased perfectly to his Boss's possessive, vain nature. A monogrammed name tattooed on the skin above his heart declaring that he was owned, mind body soul (and heart, though he'd be damned if he ever said that to the little shite) by one James Moriarty. He'd snuck away from a job half a day early to get it done, though he'd likely get chewed out if that bit was found out. The risk was well worth the reward when he showed it off, the skin still sore when Jim pounced at him to trace it with his own hands, grinning a wicked and sharp smile and murmuring pleased nothings. His own gift in return was wonderful, though Jim vowed that it was Sebastian's that year that had truly won. Although how a tattoo wins over a recently bought nature reserve in Tinchuley, West Bengal, India specialized in raising and re-releasing tigers back into the wild he had no idea.

* * *

[Year Five]

* * *

There wasn't going to be a St. Nick Swap that year. Or any year, ever again. No parties gifts laughter Jim, no _Jim._ Not after what had happened on that damned rooftop with that stupid, damned detective and his poncy hair and coat. It had been a cruel unfair twist of fate and madness, made crueler by the very fact that Jim had demanded Moran be the one to keep his scope on the rooftop, forced him to have to sit still and _watch._ For a while he had held out a shred of hope that it had been an elaborate ruse but the body _his body_ had been dragged away (Mycroft's men) and it had taken Seb a four days to hunt them down and find it. It was him, had to be him, down to the very same mole on the back of his right thigh, the scar by his left ankle. Things fell apart quickly after that. The Empire was getting bogged down on every side by swift, sudden attacks from unknown assailants and Sebastian did his best to trim the waste and maintain what remained but it was a losing battle that he knew he would eventually lose. 

And then it was Christmas time and he was alone in the flat, undecorated for the first time in years and truly by himself for the first time since moving in. Sebastian had decided on his gift earlier that year before his death, and it had been a harsh war between logic and the rough unbridled emotion that had slowly started to well up inside of him. It would have been the riskiest thing he had ever done, despite the multitude of suicide missions he had been on, admitting that he had started to develop _feelings_ for a man who had quite carefully explained how quickly he would cut his Tiger's heart out of his chest if he dared think of anything related to love. He had been content with that, his own feelings were a weakness and his whole job, his whole life now, revolved around removing anything that could be a weakness for Jim. In this case, it was his own heart and he'd be damned if that was going to hurt Jim in any way. 

Then the obsession with baby Holmes had began, the games and puzzles and pure delight that he had shown at finally hoping he met his equal. Moran had lived with it because that's what Jim did, he obsessed and then broke his toys and got a new one. It was normal and it would pass, Holmes would pass, like all others had. But then Holmes kept getting more interesting, more exciting to play with, and it began to take its toll on their partnership and on the Empire. So he had decided, finally, after a long arduous struggle with himself, that the risk of being cast out or killed by the only person he had grown to love would be worth it if his confession had the chance to knock Jim out of his obsession. But then the roof and the gun and blood and it just... hadn't happened. He had failed, done too little too late. And he had nothing except the growing pit in his chest to comfort him now. 

* * *

Jim straightened the smart black tie again though he knew he looked as perfect as he could be. The past few months had been surprisingly restless, he had expected his time away from London and his work to be well for him but... well, things hadn't gone as planned. There had been a sudden attack on his Empire and he had been forced to deal with things quickly and quietly, displeased at the sub-par quality that his second-in-command had done. It appears that Moran had taken his sudden 'death' harder than he had expected. And apparently so had Jim, a sudden lack of appetite, inability to sleep (more so than normal), a strange twisting sadness in his gut. 

Obviously he had caught whatever love bug Moran had been trying to hide the past few months. It was clear that he had broken the first rule, no feelings, but... The man was so resourceful and lovely at times, how could he kill him over one flaw? Well. That might've been a mistake, because every book that Jim had ever read said that feelings were not contagious and yet here he was, feeling like a love-struck teenager waiting to pick up his date. How disgusting, he'd have to make sure his Tiger knew how upsetting it was... although, that could wait until after the 'hello I'm not dead' romp. Ugh, he'd probably even have to admit that he missed the big loafs company. Damn, why were people so irritating? He coughed, clearing his throat and straightening the sleeves of his suit. Custom-made for his return from a rich red velvet with black accents, exactly like all the lovely envelopes from Christmas past. Moran would find it lovely and romantic, of course, and after last years gift from his Tiger he really had to knock this year out of the park. Coming back from the dead with a heart-felt confession of love? Easily the best gift possible, and he didn't even have to get a tattoo. He turned the doorknob (hadn't changed the locks yet, silly fool), and pushed it open. 

"Moran, I'm home." There was a crashing from the side room and a loud thumping, and then there was a very surprised Tiger standing in the doorway opposite him. A wide, shark-like grin spread across Jim's face and he spun on the spot, waving his hands. "Merry Christmas, I think I love you!" Moran barreled into him, slamming him against the door and wrapping his arms around him, squeezing tightly. He thought he might have even felt the smallest wetness from tears. Touching.

"I'm going to kill you, you sick monster." The grip around him tightened, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. "Christ, I love you too, you cruel shite." 

"Yes well, of course you do." He huffed the best he could in the embrace. "I'm a real treat. If you're going to kill me, make sure not to get blood on the wrapping paper." 


End file.
